


In a Matter of Speaking, I'm Dead

by your_bro_joe



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Amputation, Amputation Kink, Anal Sex, Angst, Bondage, Consensual Violence, Gore, M/M, Respawn Abuse, Sadomasochism, Snuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-22
Updated: 2016-07-23
Packaged: 2018-07-25 23:47:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7551862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/your_bro_joe/pseuds/your_bro_joe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s a scene, almost like a game to them. The freedom that this new Respawn system allows opens up a whole new world to two violent, reckless Junkers. The ability to mix experimental bombs and not worrying about blowing oneself to Kingdom Come; a way to blow off steam between matches, fucking around and hurting themselves without fear of consequence. And when they’re feeling extra daring, there are certain fantasies they allow themselves to indulge in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It’s a scene, almost like a game to them. The freedom that this new Respawn system allows opens up a whole new world to two violent, reckless Junkers. The ability to mix experimental bombs and not worrying about blowing oneself to Kingdom Come; a way to blow off steam between matches, fucking around and hurting themselves without fear of consequence. And when they’re feeling extra daring, there are certain fantasies they allow themselves to indulge in.

Junkrat’s prostheses are removed before they begin, leaving him “helpless”, vulnerable to the masked man who finds him, throws him over his shoulder, and carries him to a dark room. A deep, ragged voice rumbles threats to him between ominous, rattling breaths. 

Rat gets hard the second the first leather strap is tightened, holding his left arm down at the shoulder with another at the elbow. Two more straps are fixed to his whole leg, keeping him almost totally immobilized. He can, however, flail his stumps somewhat ineffectually as he struggles and shouts, whacking Roadhog with them as the giant man ties him down. 

He gets a good shot in on the side of Hog’s mask with what’s left of his arm, though; knocks a buckle loose and that pisses Hog right off; he doesn’t wait and that first hack of the blade on Rat’s upper arm is white-hot, cutting through skin and fat, bicep and tricep, lancing pain up the thick nerve there and when it hits bone, it shakes his whole skeleton, teeth rattling around in his skull as he screams and screams until no sound comes out. Bone splinters, and another few good hits set his arm free just below the shoulder, his brachial artery spraying blood for a few, glorious moments before slowing to a sluggish drip. 

Hog pulls the limb loose, examining the ragged bit of skin and muscle where the blade didn’t cut clean. It looks almost like a slab of meat, which he supposes it is, prepped by an amateur butcher. He squeezes the bulge of the bicep and watches blood seep forth from the network of veins and capillaries and cut red trails through the soot and filth covering the skin. A finger twitches. Hog drops the limb on the floor. 

Rat shakes and moans, hot, fat tears pouring from his eyes, and he can’t string words together as he tries to stave off shock, but then the knife is cutting through his rectus femoris, his adductor longus and vastus lateralis, his femur, and somewhere in the back of Rat’s mind he knows Hog’s made his new stumps shorter than the real ones, wonders what that means, because the rest of him’s gone numb, even through the screaming and sobbing and begging, begging for him to stop, for him to never stop. He giggles, high-pitched and edging on terrified as Hog examines his severed leg. Hog backhands him to shut him up, wheezing through that mask, the black leather splashed with red, and he can smell the copper tang of it through the filters, wishes he could lift the mask and taste it, but not now. Not now. 

Instead, Hog pulls a container of lubricant from a pocket on his vest and pulls his heavy cock from his pants. He doesn’t prepare Rat; just lubes himself up and pushes is, fucking him while he bleeds out. Rat cries out in a mix of pain and pleasure, no longer held down by the straps but incapable of fighting Hog, not that he’d want to, even if he could. His face has turned an ashy gray, his lips gone blue. All the blood he has left in his body is rushing to his cock, then out his leg. 

When his wailing has subsided to more subdued sniffling, Hog thwacks him again to keep him conscious, hard across the face, leaving a bruise immediately, and Rat comes, comes hard, the translucent white mixing with the red on their stomachs, and Rat would laugh and say it looked like something he’d spread on his scones, but his vision has already faded, and his breathing is slowing down. Hog comes when Rat finally goes still.

When Rat comes back out of Respawn, Hog is waiting for him, still covered in his blood. He lifts the mask just enough to show his mouth and licks some of it from his fingers. Rat laughs that manic giggle of his and lunges at him, kissing him to share the taste between them.

This bit of technology has certainly added some more bang to their relationship.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i asked for roadrat requests on tumblr and someone suggested continuing this with hog's reaction to delayed respawn. angst ahoy

Hog trudges from the abandoned building he and Rat had used for one of their play sessions to the Spawn room, still high on adrenaline; still caked in blood and sweat and gore. He rolls his shoulders while he waits for the machine to reassemble Rat, listening for the telltale groaning of gears and crackle of electricity.

It doesn’t come.

Roadhog’s fingers twitch. He’s a patient man when he needs to be, but the technology they’ve been provided in this place has never given him reason to tap into that patience. He does now–cracks his knuckles, rolls his shoulders again, taps his foot.

Five minutes go by before he starts to worry.

Ten minutes go by before he starts to panic.

Fear hits him like a lightning bolt. There have been times, before Overwatch,when Hog thought he might lose Rat. Times when Rat had been careless or a Jack had been too skilled. Hog had always backed him up, in those times. Hog had protected him–kept him safe. Rat is young and reckless; not innocent by any means, but not irredeemable. If anyone deserved to go down, it was Hog. Rat is too full of life, and wonder, and _joie de vivre_. If he goes down, it should at least be in a blaze of glory, not in some stupid game; not as the result of someone else’s hubris.

He is suddenly acutely aware of the fact that he’s covered in Rat’s blood, and it itches; makes his skin crawl. He wants to rip it off, but the best he can do is scrub frantically at his arms, dislodging dried flecks from hair. A voice at the back of his head taunts him with _you did this_ –the same voice that taunted him after ALF went pear-shaped and blasted his homeland to hell. He _did_ do this, and he has the blood on his hands to prove it. 

Part of him thinks he should run to the higher-ups, tell them there’s a problem with Respawn, but the rest of him is immobilized, eyes clenched shut behind his mask and hands going up to clutch at his head, to try to calm himself, to silence the guilt. He remembers telling Rat this was a bad idea, but he went along with it anyway. He remembers the thrill he got from separating meat and bone. He remembers the look on Rat’s face when the light left his eyes, and he feels sick. There’s no one to blame for this but himself. _You did this, **you did this, YOU DID THIS!**_

The hiss of hydraulic doors opening barely registers to his ears, but Junkrat’s high voice makes him snap-to immediately. He must looked a mess, because Rat’s confident swagger turns to a quick, concerned hobble as he makes his way to his partner. “Hoggie, y’alright there–” he barely gets out before Hog draws him into a tight hug, his huge arms and hands enveloping the other man’s slight frame completely. Junkrat is here, and solid, and whole (as whole as he can be), and Hog doesn’t ever want to let go.

“Jamie,” he rattles through the mask, nuzzling against Rat’s ear with the pointed leather nose. Rat’s arms come up his back, clutching his shoulders, clearly confused. They’ve done this plenty of times, and every time Hog’s been fine. Still excited, sometimes even ready for round two. Never soft like this; never scared.

“Hog,” he asks, pulling away as far as the bigger man will let him, trying to look into the smoky lenses at his eyes. Hog is reluctant to even let him that far. “What’s the matter?”

“Thought I lost you,” Hog admits. No point in hiding it. Lying would only make it worse. “It took longer than normal for you to come back.”

Rat’s eyebrows shoot up. “How long?”

“Twenty minutes.”

Rat lets out a low whistle and giggles nervously. “Shit,” he replies, laying his head on Hog’s shoulder, “I would’ve pissed m’self if I’d been in your spot.” His grip tightens on Hog’s back. He laughs again. “Don’t worry, though. You’re stuck with me.” He kisses the side of his neck. “Couldn’t get rid of me even if you wanted to!”

“Don’t want to,” Hog answers, and raises a hand to lift his mask and kiss Rat soundly.


End file.
